Page 14 of Tangled in Vines

He lobbied a napkin to me. “She more of a woman than you can handle.”

I quirked a brow. “She's five inches taller than you and could jump shot the last dunk to win the championship.”

“Shut it,” he grunted. “Why are we friends anyway?”

“I saved your ass at calculus,” I replied, finishing the shake. “It was the only way you got into business school.” Jiggling the empty cup, I grinned, “See you tomorrow.”

Tapping my watch again, I had my earbuds back in place before jogging home. I had to put last night behind me, get showered, eat something—god knows what that could be—then deep dive into business.

My house, a two-story cottage ripped from the front page of Architectural Digest, was a modern design: straight lines, open floor concepts, minimalist, gray, white, and a splash of turquoise here and there. Cole had called it soulless; I called it efficient.

I peeled my clothes off while heading to my steel and glass shower, big enough to hold three—but not for the reason Cole thought. I wasn’t in the business of holding threesomes. I had a secret issue with tight spaces.

Stepping in, I had the rain-showerheads on full blast, lukewarm, scrubbing while gradually lowering the temp to cold. My head was on the pile of work resting on my desk at the Meadery and the proposals I had ready to send to purveyors. I still hadn’t heard a damn thing about the Texas meat guys, and I was wondering if it was all a hoax.

Stepping out, I toweled my hair dry, wrapped another around my waist, and then went to dress. My thoughts roamed over everything—my expense accounts, a dad who was vacationing in Tahiti, or the haircut I’d been putting off for two weeks—anything but Mia.

Why would I let her live rent-free in my head when she wanted nothing to do with me?

I had my jeans on before my cell rang, and when Indie’s name flashed on the screen, I grabbed it and answered. “Indie? What’s up?”

“We need you on deck, boss,” he sounded giddy. “There are three guys here from a ranch in Texas who said he tried your mead last night and wants to talk business.”

I froze.

Had I heard that right? The Texas guys were indeed there—when I had just given up hope that they were coming altogether.

“Tell them I will be there in ten minutes,” I replied, squishing the lurch in my gut. While grabbing a pressed button down and debating on a tie, I tried to wrack my brain and remember who I had sold mead to—before Indie had booted me off the stall and I’d gotten hammered on my stuff—but no significant face came to mind.

“I guess I’ll have to see who it is when I get to the meeting,” I murmured while I finger-combed my hair into place.

Grabbing my iPad and phone, I left for my car, a hybrid Prius, and got to my office. Indigo was bouncing on the balls of his feet as he rushed to the door and grinned. “I’ve put them in your office. The older gentleman is Benjamin Hills or Ben, and the other fellow is Ewan Hollister, and the third guy is Trevor Dorsten.”

“Thanks, Indie,” I nodded.

Heading into the office, my gaze landed on two men, one with silver streaking through his dark hair, dressed in dark Wranglers, tan boots, and plain button-down; the other was snazzy in gray trousers matching suspenders and a paisley shirt. His dark hair was coiffed under a fedora. The third guy was in a plain dark suit and held a stack of folders.

“Welcome,” I nodded. “Mister Hills, Mr. Hollister, and Mr. Dorsten. How may I help you?”

“We’re here on behalf of Mister John Maxwell of Rocking H Ranch and Mister Portman, who owns Tender T’ Steaks,” Mister Dorsten greeted me, reaching for a handshake. I shook all three hands. “The two are in a partnership on this venture and are seeking the best beverage to accompany the campaign.”

That shocked me. I had expected one company, not two. “I see. First, let me thank you for considering us. We all know wine and beef is the so-called marriage made in gastric heaven, but I assure you, our mead is just as good.”

“Oh, I know,” the older man replied, and his deep accent jolted something inside my head. He was the one I’d sold the mason jar of Firestarter Mead, a mix of redberries, ginger, and honey. It had enough alcoholic content to trace the line of warm burn and downright boozy. “I had a glass last night, and it nearly knocked my socks off.”

I grinned. “Just nearly? Remind me to let you try the Shitkicker.”

The guy in the fedora snickered. “I had the Sullivan’s Sloane wine, and I felt my head leave my body.”

I knew that wine—all prejudice aside, he was right.

“I do understand, but we have four variations that I am sure will be on the same level as their wine,” I replied, “We have from light to dark mead, sweet and dry as well. We even have dessert mead and spicy ones. Would you like to have samples?”

“Please,” Mr. Dorsten replied.

“And may I have a bottle of the one I had last night to go,” Mr. Mills lifted his hand.

“My pleasure,” I replied, then rang Indie and Jenna. “Can you please tell me more about this venture?”

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